IPOMOEA
eyes are bright, watching as we come undone
P
apers, pens, rose petals, odd trinkets and keepsakes; they clutter the drawer, all things he had selfishly held onto when other people might have thrown them away. But each one was a memory. He’d plucked that seashell from the shores of Denocte, the first time he’d visited. He’d found it sticking out from the sand; although its exterior had been rough and dark and ordinary, he had flipped it over to reveal a colorful inside, blossoming with color, and he had been enchanted at the sight, finding inspiration in its conflicting appearance. Now it took up residence in his chambers, hidden away at the bottom of a drawer among other articles. Folded beneath it was a dried and pressed morning glory, immortalized forever on a bit of yellowing parchment, that had been plucked from the highest peaks of Veneror where he had almost died as a foal. He had gone back, years later when he was stronger; he had built a small shrine of his own to commemorate his achievement and taken a memento when he left. That journey had been particularly momentous for him at the time; he kept telling himself that he would return, that he would straighten up his shrine, and yet he’d never found the time.
Every rock, every handwritten note, every artifact crammed into the tiny space of his desk drawers had a story attached, an experience that he was proud of. They may seem forgotten, tucked away as they were; but they represented the rose colored boy and his youth, the innocence that refused to die. They were safe here, and he would not risk them being lost for good.
Occasionally Ipomoea liked to sit beneath the window and draw out items randomly, blindly; he would sit them on the windowsill, watching the light play along their features, and relive those memories all over again. He cherished them all, and no amount of persuasion could convince him to throw a single one out - he would just buy more drawers to hold them, more shelves to display them. He would make room in his life to hold all these memories, because losing one would mean losing a part of himself.
But now he pushes them aside without care for their in intrinsic worth; they were useless to him. They could not stop Messalina’s bleeding or solve the mystery in the forest, they could only distract him.
He could hear Messalina talking, but her voice is soft and oddly muffled, as if she’s speaking to him from another room. He listens, but he doesn’t hear her; there’s a ringing in his ears, a high pitched chime that tolled over and over and over, like a funeral bell. It consumes him, filling his mind with macabre thoughts.
Moore and Casper dead.
Something in the forest, something murderous.
Blood on Messalina’s legs.
Something killing for sport.
”Not safe,” his mind whispers insistently, ”Nothing is safe, no one is safe.” He shakes his head, trying to stop the ringing, stop the thoughts, but they flood him nonetheless. He doesn’t realize that he’s stopped searching for bandages; there’s a ribbon clutched in his grasp, hovering above the desk, and he realizes that he isn’t sure where it’s come from, he doesn’t remember the memory attached to it.
He swallows thickly, brushing it aside with the rest. The room is spinning, and Messalina’s tale has made him feel sick to his stomach. Her voice grows softer and softer, but her words echo in his mind. He can’t speak, he doesn’t know what to say, he only closes one drawer and opens the next, no longer sure what he’s looking for.
Until she spins him around to face her, and her grasp is cold and tight, and her eyes are wild and so glassy, so blue. He can’t look away, ensared by the intensity of her gaze.
”They are not safe.”
Her voice is suddenly clear, as if rolls of cotton have been pulled from his ears. “They’re still out there?” he whispers, but he doesn’t need her to answer to already know. Of course they were in the forest, of course Somnus would want to see for himself. That was who he was; he was not a king that sat in his castle and relied on others to keep his Court safe. He led the charge himself.
But inside was safe - or, at the very least, safer than out there. Outside it was dark, and a cold wind was whispering through the trees. Shadows stalked every corner, blacker than pitch, consuming everything that dared stand within them. There was no telling what those shadows hid, not until it reached out and dragged you into the dark.
That was where Somnus and the others still were; that was where Messalina was going.
She had come for him, come for the guards, come to warn him. But now she was going back.
His eyes are bright and wide with the realization, his mind whispering of peril, of the dangers she had relayed to him. ”Not safe.” Somnus had gone, knowing it wasn’t safe; he was too courageous to stay home and hide, too loyal to his court to leave it to fend for itself. Could Ipomoea be that brave, too?
Would he dare to be?
“I…”
His mouth opens and closes, and it’s as if the room is whispering for him to stay, his bed calling for him to return to the comfort of the covers. Perhaps if he went back to sleep, if he closed his eyes and dreamed of sweet sunshine and budding flowers, perhaps he would wake up in the morning and find it had been been one horrible, terrible nightmare. Perhaps in the morning Moore and Casper would still be alive, and Messalina would be safe, and there would be no danger -
- But he knows it wouldn’t be so.
“I’m coming with you.” The words surprise him, but they make him feel strong. He straightens his shoulders, lifting his chin, drawing himself up. He turns back to his desk to light a thick wax candle. The flame flickers into life, filling the room with a soft orange glow, illuminating his face. The door of the metal lantern creaks when he opens it; he places the candle gently inside, locking the door behind it.
“Take this,” he tells her, passing it over to her. He knows it won’t do much, but at least it will keep the darkness around them at bay. A moment later he lights a second candle, its flame quivering into life to add its glow to the first. With the second lantern alight, he turns back to face her. There’s a determination in his flushed eyes, masking the fear that he’s swallowed. He pauses, his gaze seeking her’s.
“Are you ready?”
He could be brave like Somnus - he had to be.
@messalina | "speaks" | notes: i had the opposite problem, po had 0 words
